Chateau of Echoes

parents.

Summoning a vision of myself as a teen, I subjected that person to an honest examination. That appraisal revealed exactly what I had told Cranwell-but did that mean no one would have wanted to talk to me? That I wouldn’t have been interesting? That my parents weren’t proud to call me their daughter? Maybe what I had perceived as rejection was only their attempt to shelter me, to keep me from situations they knew I wasn’t comfortable with. To protect my privacy. My anonymity.

In the final analysis, the problem had been my self-esteem. I couldn’t imagine anyone being interested in knowing me. And the thought of meeting new people terrified me. I was so self-absorbed I was incapable of directing my focus from myself to others. That’s what college, and Peter, had helped me to do.

Although I still wasn’t comfortable at parties, and given a choice, I would rather read a book, at least I no longer thought of myself as a social pariah.

I was an interesting person.

I was well traveled. I was an expert in my field. I was intelligent; I could hold my own in any conversation. I was an excellent hostess; I threw fabulous dinner parties… at least while Peter had been alive.

I had achievable goals for my future and considered myself successful.

I was not beautiful, but I was pleasant looking. I would never be a model. I didn’t care to be one. I knew my best features, my eyes and hair, and I accentuated them. I kept my weight under control.

In fact my life seemed perfect. But why didn’t it feel that way? I could almost sense the spectre of God hovering at the edge of my thoughts. I wrestled with Him. Tried to push Him away. Why did He always keep popping up? Like a spiritual jack-in-the-box? Would I ever be able to push him back down? Put a definitive latch on the box?

Staring up at the ceiling, I let go of the rein I had on my thoughts and let them gallop away. I closed my eyes, hoping for sleep, but Cranwell’s brown eyes haunted me.

What if I had met him at my parents’ house?

My thoughts had veered off in a completely unforeseen direction. I kept thinking of his thumbs wiping away my tears. Of those brown eyes, looking into the depths of my soul. He was the type of person I’d always worked hard at staying away from. He was the type of person I had never allowed myself to trust. The type of person I’d listened to from the safety of my room while my parents had entertained. And yet…

And yet, he was forty-five with a whole life full of people and places and experiences that I’d never known and frankly never wanted to. I decided, in a searing flash of insight, that I had developed a crush on Cranwell.

But crushes were something I had experience with. As long as I didn’t feed the fascination, didn’t fixate on the object of my affection, I knew it would go away. Especially when it lacked encouragement from him. Which it did.

Which it would.

The only reason he paid me any attention was because of my position. If he were kind to me, it was only because he wanted me to let him stay longer. If he flirted with me, it was only because he flirted with everyone; I knew his type. And if he had an interest in anyone in the house, it would be Severine.

And that proved to be the happy thought to which I fell asleep.

13

Cranwell and Lucy found me one afternoon on my third run-recovery lap around the chateau. It was one of the rare times I’d seen him without a book.

He caught me near the garden and began to walk beside me, fitting his stride to mine. “There was a call for you while you were out.”

I glanced at him. He looked scholarly in a pair of chocolate wide-wale corduroys and a cardigan. “You don’t have to answer the phone.”

He shrugged. “I was in the kitchen.”

Doing who knows what. “Who was it?”

“Some people looking for a room.”

“I’ll call them back this afternoon. I’m probably booked.”

“I found your booking calendar and there was no one scheduled, so I booked them for you.”

That brought me to a halt so fast I almost fell over. “You what?!”

“I booked them. Two couples, two rooms. I even remembered to ask for their credit card numbers.” He looked supremely satisfied with himself.

“First of all, Cranwell, it’s not your job to answer the phone for me. Severine does that. Second, it’s not your place to book rooms for me.” I hadn’t been that angry in years.

“I looked in your schedule and you don’t have anyone coming until after Christmas.”

“That’s because I don’t want anyone. I refuse most of the people who call.”

“That’s not any way to run a business, Freddie.” The louder I responded, the quieter Cranwell became.

“It’s my business. I like it this way. I need solitude.”

Lucy had clamped her ears to her head and was crouching close to the ground.

“Don’t you think it’s a little strange to be refusing guests when you run an inn?”

His mild tone infuriated me, but I could think of nothing to say.

He snapped a finger at Lucy, and she stood up, rolling her eyes toward the forest, looking eager to get away. They had started for the trees when he stopped and turned around. “By the way, I forgot to take down their phone number. You can’t call them back to cancel. Sorry.”

I was steaming when I resumed my walk. The worst of it was that my calves had cramped while I’d stopped to argue with Cranwell. I spent a good five minutes stretching them out against the chateau’s wall. By then, even zipping my black jogging fleece up to my neck failed to keep me warm.

Taking a deep breath, I held it for ten seconds and looked up at the steel gray clouds. I saw a flock of hirondelles, sparrows, heading south. Their cries skirled across the sky and echoed in my ears, reminding me that fall was upon us. Which meant that winter would soon arrive. The chill that tinged the air would only get worse.

Clapping my glove-clad hands together for warmth, I jogged around to the front door.

“I’m sorry, Freddie. I thought I was doing you a favor, and I can tell now that I wasn’t. I didn’t mean to infringe on your territory.”

At least Cranwell had apologized before I served dinner. Now I would be able to enjoy the food. I washed my hands and wiped them on my twill pants and tugged on the long sleeves of my lagoon blue U-neck sweater to pull them back down. Then I served him a thick slice of pate de lapin aux noisettes before I answered.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you.” I set a plate down for myself and broke a crisp baguette in two, handing half to him. Then I took my place on my stool. “After Peter died, this was my sanctuary. It still is. I’m redefining my place in the world, and I like to do it at my own pace.”

“I can understand that. It’s what I’m doing too. Redefining myself as a Christian. This is a sort of sanctuary for me too.”

We ate in silence for several minutes, savoring the rabbit and hazelnut spread. “I don’t take many guests.” I didn’t reveal to him my decision mechanism. It sounded juvenile even to me.

“Nothing wrong with that. If you had too many, you wouldn’t be able to pay individual attention to me.” He winked at me.

I wrinkled my nose at him.

“So what was Peter like?”

“Blond. Blue-eyed.”

“I mean, what kind of a person was he?”

“At least give me some place to start, Cranwell.”

“What did he want out of life?”